Friday, October 12, 2018

At the gates of death

After Psalm 107

Wait a minute, we’re all supposed to be
good, right, I mean, it’s not like
we’re Hitler, right, we make mistakes,
we misspeak, we’re boxed in by what
happened 50 years ago, or 100, or 157,
whatever, and because we’re good
it’s never our fault (I blame Trump),
we can all play our victim’s card,
earned and honorary membership, 
don’t tell me otherwise as I careen toward,
approach, stagger, stumble toward
the gates of death. I look around to see 
(blame) someone for shoving me here,
and all I see are mirrors, reflections 
that would embarrass Dorian Gray,
it’s all there staring at me really ugly
and the only thing I can do is cry

Somehow, through the roaring
and the noise, all the screams around me
and the screams from me,
the cry is heard.

Photograph by Dil Assi via Unsplash. Used with permission.

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